


Piano!lock AU: Keys on a String

by angel-loving-star (xASx)



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Childhood Memories, Childhood Trauma, Cigarettes, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Johnlock - Freeform, Loss of Parent(s), M/M, Mostly no Beta-read, Music References maybe?, Mutual Pining, Nicotine patches aren't enough, Not Beta Read, Not all characters will have names, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, PTSD John, Parent Death, Past Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Pianist John, Piano!lock, Pianolock, Pining Sherlock, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Repressed Memories, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Smut, Writing Prompt, english not my first language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2018-10-12 09:22:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10487499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xASx/pseuds/angel-loving-star
Summary: The melody started to materialise in front of him. John let his mind lead him through the melancholy rhythm. There was a violin somewhere in his mind, playing along with him, as his teacher had done once. He ached for the chance to be able and guide someone else through a piece, for two different melodies to clash and entwine harmoniously together. He would never have that again. This was his last time. The last time he played. The last time he would feel the softness of the keys under his fingertips. The last time he would let his will elevate his mind to press deeply in every single note. The slow melody enveloped him, suffocated him.John has kept his childhood hidden for years. Sherlock has of course deduced most of it but there is a certain secret which he cannot possibly imagine. John has a talent that he is deeply ashamed of and he is determined to keep it hidden forever. But with the famous detective by his side for so long, it is a matter of time when Sherlock Holmes will begin suspecting that something's missing. Will he ever find out? Will John ever be free to make his dreams come true? Will a secret such as this bring them closer like they both want for years now?





	1. so what is the case?

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [tumblr prompt](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/280071) by anon. 



> since I started this story on tumblr, I might as well start posting it here. It probably won't be very big but anyway I'll try updating as quickly as possible. it is mostly non beta-ed and please take care at the warning tags and if you still want to read and have small reservations, please don't hesitate to ask in the comments and I'll explain as much as possible, since most warnings are shown only mildly in the story, so in no serious extent. be sure to be comfortable though before reading ;)
> 
> say hi on tumblr : [angel-loving-star](https://angel-loving-star.tumblr.com/) . gonna be updating there as well :)

_He hurtled in his room crying out in frustration and anger that you rarely see in an eight-year-old child. His sister watched him wide-eyed, cuddled under the covers of her bed at the other side of the room. The boy spent some time with his eyes directed at the shut door furiously before darting to his own bed and falling face-first on the pillows._

_After a while his sister forced her blankets over her head, trying to ignore her brother’s muffled sobs as tears rolled her soft cheeks silently._

* * *

His fingers twitched unoccupied. He was sitting in a car at a corner of a dark street. Music could be heard from the nearby club. Music his ears painfully recognised and his mind reminded him of. The man beside him was crouched to the wheel, with a pair of binoculars stuck in his eyes. Stake out. What could be worse in their line of work? His ear caught another melody and his head turned almost violently to glare at his partner incredulously. Ah, yes, of course that was the only thing missing. Sherlock Holmes humming on his own rhythms that dangerously resembled Bach. Damn it, this wasn’t a good night for him.

‘Sherlock.’ He managed.

‘Eyes on the subject, John.’ Came back the low voice commanding, not even granting him a glance.

Doctor John Watson sighed in his eternal turmoil of a situation. How did this man always manage to make him so unnerved in the end? His leg was twitching in anticipation now. This was officially the Worst.Night.Ever. Weeks afterwards he might actually reconsider that decision of proclamation, but now it seemed quite appealing.

They were on a crazy, unusual case -as was usual with them- about a mysteriously stolen antique this time and honestly John couldn’t comprehend what was so special about that one. The way that was stolen was pretty obvious and the thief as well, already caught by the police. However, as always, Sherlock insisted on a stake out at the other side of town, of some utterly irrelevant salesman’s house.

Soon the music died out, the last people from the pub passed their car oblivious of their presence, overwhelmed in music and alcohol. The hours drew ahead of them like endless pauses on a pentagram. John’s agitation soon left, when there was no more music (thankfully his detective partner had got bored of humming hopeless tunes), and his body was soon sliding lower, his head fell on the side and his eyes slowly started to close, in the small hours before dawn.

Sherlock let him drift off for a while. He didn’t need much sleep anyway, but John slept indeed much more -even though uncoordinated and scarce for a proper normal person- it still was more than Sherlock. The detective smiled softly, hearing the impalpable snore from the shorter man and wondered if it would be like that when he slept in a proper bed. He quickly shoved those thoughts away and focused on the task at hand, somehow frustrated that nothing had happened yet.

* * *

_It happened when he was seven. His mother had gotten sick. The grown-ups wouldn’t talk about it in front of them, but both him and his sister knew. Soon she couldn’t get up from bed. Father wouldn’t take her to the doctors at the hospital. He had been there once. They had helped his leg mend. He was sure they could help Mother._

_Their walks on the park had stopped long before that though. Father said he should concentrate on his lessons from now on. He didn’t mean Mother’s lessons, just school. The child had done everything he could to finish everything early, every single day, so he could at least proudly go to Mother and ask her to teach him again. She would just smile and guide him through every single challenge. He loved it. He didn’t mind that he wasn’t allowed to go to the park anymore. He loved her. Now she was sick._

_His little sister had whined and complained and cried about the park. She wanted her friends and their games back. She blamed him for spending time with Mother, rather than fighting like her. She was little then… No more than four years old. He didn’t blame her. One day she would understand the beauty of it. One day he dreamed of her admiration. One day, he wished he could teach her too._

_Their little childish dreams hardly mattered in reality though. Once Mother was sick, the music was gone. Father forbade him of practicing, of even getting near Mother’s game. The little boy hated him for it. He told Mother, he begged her to get to the good doctors, to get up and play with him. She just smiled as always and dried the tears from her son’s eyes, whispering he should be strong. She told him a story of a prince that never gave up his dreams, and one day he won against the dark wizard and came back to his kingdom, victorious._

* * *

John woke with a start, trying to get up. Damn it, Sherlock is humming again. That was the first thing he registered, the tremor in his hand visible now. John grunted, trying to hide it by pressing his fist against his thigh. It didn’t work. In the meantime, Sherlock was looking at him.

‘John, alright?’ The detective frowned at his hand, before looking directly into his eyes.

‘Yes, alright. Thanks. What did I miss?’ The doctor said with a stiff voice and pretended to look around, as if something would happen exactly because he woke up.

Dawn was almost upon them. A faint light that spread through the clouds of London. The road in front of them was hopelessly the same. John’s hand stiffened when a warm touch on the wrist was applied to it. He glanced down and saw Sherlock observing intensely. John shivered and tried to pull away but Sherlock was already resisting the force with a steady tug of his fingers.

‘John.’ He said letting John’s hand free after a close examination.

‘Sherlock.’ John replied as if nothing at all was concerning.

‘I hadn’t seen your hand tremble like that in years.’ Sherlock knew where not to push John with his immediate deductions anymore.

‘Yeah, well, it never stopped.’ John provided looking away.

‘Yes, it had.’ He persisted.

John knew he could see the tensed shoulders and clenched jaw. He knew, Sherlock had already thought of all the possibilities. John was hiding something important at the moment. Sherlock must have realised from the moment the doctor woke up, maybe even before, that he was having a nightmare. It wasn’t one of the usual ones of war and Afghanistan, this was something else, something Sherlock hadn’t seen before. However, John didn’t give in. Sherlock sighed deciding to keep it for another time. John Watson always surprised him. What could possibly be new and unknown about the good old doctor for Sherlock, after all those years? This wasn’t exactly new after all, anyway. Sherlock could see the lines stressed across John’s face, the elevated pulse, the reluctance of acknowledgement. This was deeply rooted. How could Sherlock miss something like that for so long? Still he would like very much to take it slow and find out, while John grew accustomed to the idea of him knowing. The detective didn’t want to repeat the mistakes of the past on something clearly very important. How could it not be? Everything was important about John.

* * *

_She died not a year after. The little boy had prayed and wished to all the stars he could see in the sky to let her live. He hadn’t forgotten her tale and so hoped his Mother meant, that the victory would be theirs and the bad sickness would leave their home soon, but that never happened. His sister hadn’t said a word to him or anyone else for a long time, even before Mother died. Now she was utterly quiet. He had stopped trying to talk to her or explain to her how school and friends worked and how small numbers were not good in the paper the teacher would send to Father. He was tired._

_The day she left, Mother had taken her son’s fingers in her palms. They were already stiff from almost a year of non-usage. The boy was ashamed, for he had forgotten all she had taught him to play. But Mother just smiled… as always… and whispered._

_‘Promise me, you’ll never give up, Johnny. Promise me, you’ll take care of your sister. Promise me that one day you’ll be great at playing and you will teach her as you always wanted. Promise me, Johnny. Promise me.’_

_‘But I’m not the prince, Mother.’ His voice had cracked. ‘You are not getting well. I am not the prince. I cannot make my dreams come true.’ tears were streaming from his grey eyes. Mother only smiled._

_‘I am not your dream, little one. Promise me, now.’ She had fallen back to the pillows that almost engulfed her and buried her whole. The little boy straightened his shoulders and nodded that day._

_‘I promise.’ He had said, and he broke that promise._

* * *

The stake out was proved pointless. John was driving them home, glancing at a very grumpy Sherlock beside him from time to time, rolling eyes. The detective was crouched in his seat, buried in his coat, legs bent and curled to his chest. You could only see some black curls, standing up from the end of his coat collar. John humphed in exasperation. He would have to deal with this for -quite possibly- a whole week. Crime was slow this time of year and this was the only case Lestrade could come up with, that might get Sherlock out of the flat for a few hours. He was right on the practical part, but failed to look further ahead. Sherlock didn’t like being wrong and he liked being fooled much less. A small smile appeared on John’s lips, remembering the last time Sherlock had a shouting match with Greg at the police station. He only hoped Sherlock will be more discreet this time and call him to Baker Street.

Finally, at home. John parked nearby at a lonelier street and got out, desperate for a good snooze on the couch with morning tea. Cars and buses were already moving, almost hectically, to the streets and it wasn’t even properly working hours yet. Sherlock took a bit of time to gather himself and although the delay frustrated John immensely, he couldn’t help but smirk at the detective’s dishevelled form, struggling out of the car, as if drunk. They both quickly paced towards 221B, feeling the cold creeping up their exhausted and unfed bodies. Once in, John alerted Mrs Hudson, knowing she’ll be well awake by now, and by the time he got to the stairs he could hear Sherlock’s door shutting closed with a loud bang.

‘Bastard…’ he whispered through gritted teeth. Now he would have to make tea on his own along with almost a dozen experiments on the kitchen table. Good luck to him finding the real sugar.

The earlier incident was all forgotten and especially for John that sounded something like good news. The last thing he needed was Sherlock looking into his most sacred and deep past. There was a reason it was buried and should stay that way. Gosh, that music earlier must have triggered the memory in the dream. John should really be careful next time. He couldn’t quite name a date, for when his memory started to fight back at him by recognising pieces and notes randomly, wherever he went, as if looking for stimulation. He could either let it alone or steel himself, in case it happened again. John knew the second could quite possibly make him prone to those incidents even more but he could not risk leaving it to mere chance. He had to do with Sherlock Holmes after all. Definitely the last thing he needed.


	2. smoke from the past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> their life goes on with the case but where will it lead them?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I though I would be through with some plot points in this chapter but it became longer than I thought and so I let it run :) so plot points and angst next chapter :)
> 
> I updated first on tumblr because ao3 was out for some hours so if you want to follow me there I'm @angel-loving-star

He was in the process of making tea (without sugar, he wouldn’t risk it) when Sherlock surged from his bedroom with a wave of energy as if he had slept for hours. Truthfully, he wasn’t inside for more than ten minutes and that’s what exactly made John worry. Giving up sulking about the case so easily? Not like Sherlock. So, there must be something in his mind.

‘Another case?’ he shouted towards the sitting room filling a second cup of tea. There was no reply, only a screeching of a randomly played tune on the violin. After that, Sherlock just seemed to nudge at the strings lazily, without his bow. John sighed resigned and walked to their small sitting room, let one cup at the table in front of the couch -where Sherlock had taken residence- and sat at his comfortable armchair, sliding back, relaxing his muscles.

‘No… Thinking about you.’ As usual, replying after almost half an hour, in which John had finished his tea with mind too tired to think about anything -let alone achieve comprehensible knowledge of the environment- and had almost fallen asleep. He was immediately sitting up at the words echoing in his mind right now. The doctor looked at Sherlock surprised and stricken. Had he heard correctly? Had he imagined it while drifting off? Sherlock’s gaze seemed so far away that John truly questioned himself whether he had actually spoken, especially to say something like that.

‘What about me?’ he felt himself tense when Sherlock’s eyes focused on him.

‘Nothing…’ Sherlock almost shrugged it off completely as if it wasn’t important and lied down, curling on the couch, his tea already cold.

* * *

_It didn’t take long for Father to lose himself. Every day, he returned to an empty home late. His sister the only quiet being waiting for him. He locked the door to the small bedroom that seemed to shrink and hold him prisoner by the hour. It was all they had._

_‘How many?’ the young teen asked every night. His sister sometimes murmured the numbers._

_10, 6, 15, 19, 14, 21…_

_Others, she just showed him -counting with her fingers. Completely silent and terrified at first. Now her wide eyes were replaced by empty ones, her silent cry for help had turned to impassibility. They didn’t communicate besides their small routine dialogue. Sometimes he even wished she was afraid instead._

_‘You?’ she spoke softly with anticipation the times that she felt like talking. If she didn’t, he just got on answering anyway._

_It was but a simple movement. He opened his jacket every time, either she asked or not, and every day he spilled the contents, arranging them in a well-ordered manner on the blankets between them. They were small, well-wrapped bags he had hidden between his body and the leather on his way home. Most of the times they were containing toasts, biscuits, just bread or some salad, maybe a bit of meat in slices and even milk if they were lucky. The teen knew her favourites were the sweets and cakes from the neighbours but that only happened once a month. Rarely, he also brought new clothes. One by one always. Maybe also some trinket that he knew would fascinate her._

* * *

The next morning John woke up from a clatter in the kitchen. He jerked up immediately, realising he’d slept on the couch and his neck was hurting with every movement. He pressed his palms to his eyeballs, trying to concentrate and shake away the headache that was settling in -he had the abrupt ‘wake-up call’ to thank for that-, and instead he heard Sherlock exclaiming, annoyed, behind the sliding double doors. Yesterday had been a pretty slow day for them both. John had mostly tried to recover from the all-night stake out, cuddled on his armchair and in the end just watching telly -crouched on the couch for hours- until sleep finally overtook him, lasting apparently ‘till morning. Sherlock, on the other hand, had barely closed an eye. There were mainly three things overwhelming his mind.

First, John; what was so traumatic for his hand to shake so violently if it wasn’t the war? The detective knew John’s past was not easy or maybe even happy at all, but it was impossible to deduce it all without any further information, even though he knew John’s brain and personality perfectly by now (or so he thought). Second, the case; it was weird for a stolen painting to disappear into thin air and all evidence pointing at one man, that could easily be found and arrested within minutes of the ‘wanted’ order coming out. Even weirder was the fact that the painting was still missing and Sherlock was sure, the petty man at the interrogation room knew nothing. Third, John; again.

As hard as it may be to admit out loud, Sherlock was worried about him. Spending the day out and about in the flat, with some experiments or sulking at the couch, was the best way he could think of, through which he could keep an eye on his flatmate. John seemed more tired than usual, more tense; Sherlock’s violin didn’t seem to relax him anymore. Sherlock had monitored his breathing while John was sleeping it off on the armchair and had pulled a blanket over him, when he found him cuddled up, presumably watching telly in the middle of the night, because he had slept all day. Sherlock was glad John was so tired that he slept peacefully (without any nightmares) but he doubted it would last or that it helped, since John’s dark circles seemed to persist on reappearing every morning.

‘Morning.’

It was John; stretching with a soft noise at the entrance to the kitchen. There was an uncomfortable expression on his face while rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. Ah, muscular pain from the angle of the couch, of course, Sherlock should have thought of that. He could probably wake him up enough to transport him to bed, instead of just pulling a blanket over him. But for that he would have needed to take John in his arms. Sherlock was immediately distracted by his crazy flying thoughts. For a moment, he couldn’t reply a single thing and John took it as a sign that he would be ignored for a while longer, so he went on to try and find something to eat. With a quick glance, he could see Sherlock was gripping at his phone tightly, barely registering anything else now. A plate had fallen to the floor as a result of, most probably, Lestrade’s text.

Sturdy muscles under his fingertips, a scent of cleanness, tea; earl grey maybe, a hint of mint or toothpaste and an extremely soft idea of lemon balm as short curls brushed his shoulder, maybe a bit of sweat as well; with them being out all the previous night, fabric soft and thicker than necessary; he wasn’t wearing his woollen jumpers yesterday-… FOCUS, damn it! What had gotten into him? Sherlock’s eyes found the screen in front of them finally, but could not look at it any longer, distracted by a certain and continuous need to look at John once more.

‘Erm, morning… John.’ He mumbled leaving the phone at the table and kneeling to gather the bigger pieces of the broken porcelain, desperate to find something to do and get his mind off things. Specifically, off John. He had to stop his mind from doing that. Once again it had come over so suddenly that everything stopped and he couldn’t react and that was not supposed to happen to his brain, damn it!

John eyed him from the other side of the kitchen making his tea. Sherlock cleaning up the mess he’d caused? Forgetting whatever was so important to cause it in the first place? Not like him at all. And then, there was what Sherlock had said yesterday morning. ‘Thinking about you’ didn’t sound like something any Holmes would ever dare to say. Hell, ‘thinking about you’ didn’t actually seem like anyone in any relationship -friendship- would say without meaning, only to brush it off after a moment. The army doctor couldn’t get his head around it at all. There was some sort of undercurrent pressure between them lately, some glint in Sherlock’s eyes, a gesture, a serious dialogue they never seem to find the time for, a share of knowledge that John couldn’t quite put his finger on.

‘Was it Greg?’ he asked, almost glaring above the edge of his cup.

‘What?’ Sherlock flinched almost letting the pieces of the plate fall down again, unprepared.

‘Was it Lestrade? At the phone? A text? Any news?’ repeated John slowly with a small amused smile, that even himself hadn’t realised, was playing on his lips.

‘Oh. Yes. Uh…’ he seemed to stumble over his words and cursed himself silently pursing his lips. ‘We need-’

‘I know. Let’s go.’ John surprisingly pressed in to save the situation. He would try to understand what was wrong with Holmes only if it continued during the whole day. In the meantime, he told himself it might just be the start he must have gotten when the plate fell; knowing deep down that wasn’t an option. The doctor got a questioning glance from his flatmate, clearly shocked that he’d taken over the situation without even a question of ‘what and where’ but he just beamed a small smile in reply.

‘You’ll tell me on the road. Now hurry!’ he said leaving his mug on the table and making his way to his coat.

* * *

_They had a silent agreement; the two siblings. Harriet was getting home early after school. Father was gone by then. Off to some pub or another. Wouldn’t be back till dawn. Her job; gather the rubbish, search for forgotten cash and pennies around the house, count the empty bottles. She reported the number to her brother every night. His job; study, wander around town and the neighbourhood after noon, run chores or errands for anyone that needed it and could pay, collect the money and buy the day’s meal._

_It wasn’t like that from the start though. Mother had taught them both how to stay safe when Father started bringing bottles back home or stayed away for all evening hours. It had all happened before. Little John remembered all too well, but Harriet… she was a gentle soul; Mother always used to say. She had told him once of the tender souls found in the wrong side of the world, of kindness whirled up in places that didn’t deserve it. She also told him how sometimes the souls are roughened and forgotten and the sweetest person on earth could be a victim of its own self. She had asked him to take care of his sister and he had promised to never let anything happen to her. He was prepared when Mother left, they both were._

_For the first couple months, Father had them taken care of always. Not even one mistake or side-track. Little Harriet wasn’t speaking but seemed much better. She played with her old dolls and never disobeyed her brother of Father -not that the latter was paying any attention. Sometimes she even invited him over and both of them forgot everything for a couple of carefree hours. However, he always locked their door at night and stayed awake when Father was away, just in case he returned before they left for school. Suddenly the bottles appeared again inside their small home, the shaking hands when Father was getting them off to school, the sleepless nights and days without seeing any sign of him. Before long, he stopped leaving money at the table every morning. Little John had clenched his small fists and swore to not let his sister starve. They had to make do._

* * *

Sherlock’s fingers were twitching nervously once in the cab, sometimes fumbling with loose threads of his coat. He puffed checking his cell phone for the tenth time in two minutes. He felt the need to solve this case and get it over with as soon as possible. His eyes darted to the driver; beard, long hair, probably has a cat judging by the scratch marks on his upper wrists, sixty-ish, he was definitely going to be slow. The detective kicked with his foot turning his attention to the traffic by stretching his neck, cheekbones standing out at the weird angle. A rainy curtain started to settle over London, buses and cabs struggling to their respective destinations.

‘So…?’ Sherlock turned at the prompting tone to find John looking directly at him inquisitively.

‘Ah, yes. Lestrade texted.’ He replied with an almost uninterested tone, looking outside again. ‘An employee from the auction place had been missing for a couple of days. There was nothing definite. No clue where he was. His body was found this morning. The Yard is already there for an hour or so. Let’s hope they don’t get my evidence mixed.’ He chuckled.

‘Oh, I see… and you didn’t have any theories about him missing from the start?’ the doctor asked with a small smirk.

‘Of course, I did!’ dismissively. ‘But there was no trail to follow at all. Just like the painting.’

Silence took over them both for a while before Sherlock added in a low whisper while brushing two fingers together in front of his lips stubbornly intrigued.

‘It’s not just a painting anymore, John. The game has evolved.’

‘Sherlock?’ a small question to which Sherlock rolled his eyes and insisted vibrantly.

‘It’s murder, John! Murder!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ps: of course John got the murder part from the start, just Sherlock is a tiny bit excited ;)


	3. case file - fire leaves stains like blood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the case continues. meanwhile in the past John says goodbye.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally here again :) halfway through next chapter as well. lots of angst with past!John
> 
> say hi on tumblr : [angel-loving-star](https://angel-loving-star.tumblr.com/)

‘Of course, I know it’s murder!’ sighed John, exasperated. ‘Care to explain what has you so excited though?’

‘We need to look at the crime scene of the missing painting again.’ Sherlock scoffed and when he got no answer continued gladly. He might not want to answer to stupid, mundane questions of others but to John he always did, even if he seemed annoyed to do it. Most of the times though, he just craved to impress the man whose name was John Watson. ‘We need to look at it in the light that what happened wasn’t a robbery but a murder. Literally. Maybe the ‘thief’ wasn’t a thief at all but a murderer all along.’

‘What are you- You are saying that he was there to kill and not to steal the painting?’ John frowned. ‘Then why did he take it then?’

‘That, is an excellent question, my dear Watson.’

* * *

_There was a soft echo in his mind. Eyes fixed on the centre of the room. Fingers twitching. Something told him ‘no’. Screamed at him. Scratched his being with claws and fangs. No! It’s not allowed. You’re not good enough. You haven’t practiced for ages. You shouldn’t be thinking it. NO! There shouldn’t even be a possibility! No! It was wrong. It was shameful. It was beneath him._

_‘Watson. John! John Watson! Doctor!’ the echo became louder and the room burst into lights and colours. A disco ball sent glints in his eyes, the army doctor squinted. There were also the murmurs of the crowd. Low lighting. Some beers in front of him. Empty._

_‘Hey!’ a shake to his shoulder. John turned abruptly._

_‘Yeah, sorry Mike.’ He spoke to the shorter, rounder man of the same age. His fingers twitched curling around another beer._

_‘I think you’ve had enough, buddy.’ Mike frowned at him._

_John scrutinised the place once again as if for the first time this evening. The table was near the bar. The music had stopped for a while now. A new DJ was coming any minute. The place was spacious, full of chatty chat people that frustrated him with their indifferent expressions. Round and luxurious, one could say. Or luxurious enough for two buddies from the Army Training Hospital to hang out. There were flashing lights along with some pretend smiles, John found that amusing. He was different here. He didn’t fit it with all those people. Not even with Mike. He was in the harsh reality._

_‘It’s my last night, Mike. Don’t you think I deserve it?’ he scowled bringing the bottle to his lips and wincing at the familiar taste. It shouldn’t be familiar. This was wrong. He closed his eyes with a deep breath. ‘Sorry. I thought that’s why you brought me here after all.’_

_Mike wasn’t like him. Mike wasn’t trained for the army. He wouldn’t have to leave his country. He wouldn’t have to spend years away only to fight for it somewhere that only life and death matters. John was prepared. He had lived through a war zone his entire life. It only seemed fitting to live in a real one. Mike was making a soft movement with his head as if saying ‘It’s alright, pal.’ And John was grateful._

_John didn’t know how much time it had passed. His eyes were almost hyperventilating, darting around to dark corners, avoiding the lights, especially the centre of the stage in the middle of the round club. The music had started and stopped already. Soon it would be time for the lonely, emotional strings of a waltz to start. The night was well into those hours were couples would dance their last dance, slow and romantic, kiss and say goodbye for who knows how long. John had no one to say goodbye to. Even if he was probably leaving for good._

_The army doctor looked over the bodies that tangled in booths with silence, hidden behind all the smiles and funny conversations of larger companies. There was a man kissing a girl notably younger than him. His hand was sliding down from the table while his other held her hair in a tight fist. A girl crowding a young boy in the corner of their booth, smirking at the boy’s flustered look of arousal. A woman, around John’s age, sitting alone quite near them. Their eyes met, John held fast. She had dark eyes, or it was just the light making them seem so, dark hair and elegant glasses. She smiled suggestively and then John scoffed turning to look the other way. Not today. Then his eyes caught a young playful couple on the other side of the room. He winced. The two boys were chuckling and then a hand over the other and suddenly they were all over each other kissing passionately. In a quick intake of breath John looked at the table in front of him, determined not to look up again for the rest of the night._

_‘I brought you here to be free and have fun, actually.’ Mike was smiling. With a sharp movement, John’s eyes were on his accusatory. He wanted to speak, to shout, to break the table in two or more pieces, he didn’t care. Just not this. He had nothing to be free off. No one to say goodbye. No way to have fun. No way of feeling happy. He never would. His head ducked with shoulders slouching. He was almost shaking._

_‘Fuck you, Stamford.’ He didn’t know how much time it passed again when he cursed the words and with one swift movement swallowed the last drops of beer in front of him. He didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. Time wasn’t a friend. The slow music had started and stopped. The club was warm and almost empty. John’s eyes rested on the centre of the stage once more. Maybe there was something he could say goodbye to, after all. He was in a trance. He didn’t know how much time had passed. A trance…_

* * *

Once in the auction building again, Sherlock ran upstairs where the painting was allocated before it went missing. Donovan was waiting for them, clearly annoyed they didn’t go to look at the corpse first, dragging her this way over here while everybody else was working at the Yard.

‘Sorry Sally.’ John shook his head when she rolled his eyes and followed Sherlock. He found him pacing around the place like crazy, kneeling and examining the floorboards or just trying to point out certain positions. John coughed softly.

‘Yes. We’re going to need blue light. Get Lestrade over here, John. I’m pretty sure our murderer didn’t do a complicated job out of it. There’s no need to procrastinate over the body anymore.’ Sherlock whispered in a decisive monologue that John had to lean closer to hear.

The doctor smirked at the ridiculousness of his friend and took out his phone. He would never admit it but Sherlock was adorable when he didn’t notice nobody was around to hear him or when he spoke so softly as if everybody else had supernatural hearing abilities.

After a small talk with Greg, John persuaded him that everything was crystal clear for their consulting detective and with a grunt and a murmur of how Donovan at least would be happy about this, the detective inspector hang up, reassuring John that the necessary means were on their way.

The “upstairs” of the auction building weren’t actually much different from a first-floor balcony that looked over the main hall downstairs where the auctions took place. Some items were stored in this balcony area rather than perimetrically around the walls of the ground level because of their value. John had asked how come a painting so valuable wasn’t closed in a safe or the bank but the owner of the building and organiser of the auctions ensured him there was no place safer than this. He had fortified it himself years ago and nothing was ever stolen, not even during an auction where all the spaces where open for possible buyers. The doctor remembered Sherlock’s mocking expression at that. Any man that trusted his clients fully was a stupid one.

‘Greg’s coming.’

‘Mm?’ Sherlock didn’t even look up, concentrated on a patch of dust at a corner among a wooden collective edition table and some other paintings.

‘Lestrade.’ John repeated. ‘They’re coming, Sherlock.’

At that he at least received a curt nod and knowing it wouldn’t do much good to ask questions at this point John let Sherlock with his ministrations around the small space and rested his back on the parapet nearby. It was good. _This_ was good. They were back on the case, the hunt for a killer, Sherlock’s deductions. The sturdy man sighed in peace. He didn’t want to have to think about what happened to him on their stake-out, of what he was reminded, of his tired mind starting to play tricks on him all over again. No. Stop this. John forced himself to tense and relax again with deep breaths and pushed his thoughts to run slowly through his mind, sinking in. They were in the middle of an investigation. Everything… was utterly… and excitingly… n o r m a l.

* * *

_He didn’t hear Mike speaking to him quizzically. He didn’t feel himself get up. He lips moved when he reached the stage but he didn’t hear his own voice nor the reply. Eyes fixed on the grand piano behind the DJ’s equipment. His surroundings didn’t matter. He could only see the alabaster shining from the keys, black and white. Barely feeling the remaining staff on stage leaving him space to enter, to walk towards it. He had to say his goodbye. Just once. One last time. He would never touch it again. He would probably be dead before he even thought of it again. He needed to say goodbye. He needed to leave it behind in peace._

_John approached slowly. His fingers first touched the slick wooden made surface with the black colour. His breath hitched. He had so much time in his hands. He could brush his fingers through every single detail, to map it and remember it like a soldier would do with their lover before leaving for the war. Only he was indeed leaving for the war. He was a soldier. And this was his love. The only thing that he ever loved so dearly. He closed his eyes._

_Once upon a time, his mother had told him music was feeling. Music was love and anger and self-loathing, happiness and joy, possessiveness and jealousy, pain… She had told him every instrument has a soul… and when you learn to hear it, carve it, shape it, embrace it… you make music. John felt the pulse of the instrument between his fingers. He traced rhythmically every key letting their feeling overwhelm him and flow around him. Time was music too. Without time, music didn’t exist._

_‘Time is a treacherous fickle thing, Johnny… It either runs you down with its speed or you guide it with your will.’_

_The man exhaled sharply. Eyes opening, fixed on the invisible notes in front of him. Time was running out. He would run out of time. He could feel it. Tomorrow he would be going to war as he wanted to do. But he wouldn’t return. Would he?_

_‘Play music to guide time, Johnny… If it never runs you down, then you do it correctly.’_

_With a slow but sharp movement, John sat. His palms softly brushed the keys once more. Fingers twitching, trying to decide. Breathing shallow. If it never runs you down… If it never runs you down… John needed to forget about time. John needed time. John needed time to seize to exist. He wasn’t afraid. He was regretful. He hadn’t kept so many promises. He needed to stop time. He needed to come back after tomorrow. He needed… Oh… Chopin. A composer without time. A place you could do all you felt freely. Nocturne Op. 48 No.1 in C minor. A piece where you could pour your heart out without time running after you. John’s eyes found his fingers, his body leaned in, looming over the keys in anticipation. Steadily and surely, even with fingers trembling, John pressed the first few keys…_


	4. when it runs you down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Nothing else. There was nothing else. Never again._   
>  _..._   
>  _Nothing else he could do. He hated it._   
>  _..._   
>  _He had always been a soldier._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there you go guys :) thank you all so much for all the wonderful kudos and comments! it helps me so much to keep on with this story :D
> 
> have to say that the first scene of this chapter is quite dear to me, connected with my experience as a pianist so hope you'll enjoy the way it is depicted.
> 
> *mild warning* there is kind of implied/referenced almost child abuse with cliffhanger at the end.
> 
> Reminder that I'm updating on tumblr as well so come say hi: [angel-loving-star](https://angel-loving-star.tumblr.com/)

_The melody started to materialise in front of him. John let his mind lead him through the melancholy rhythm. There was a violin somewhere in his mind, playing along with him, as his teacher had done once. He ached for the chance to be able and guide someone else through a piece, for two different melodies to clash and entwine harmoniously together. He would never have that again. This was his last time. The last time he played. The last time he would feel the softness of the keys under his fingertips. The last time he would let his will elevate his mind to press deeply in every single note. The slow melody enveloped him, suffocated him._

_Why? Why did he have to endure this? Why him? Why?! The angry passion of someone being ripped apart from their loved ones exploded through the music. He was angry. With himself and with everyone. Why?! He had so much hatred in his heart, deep rooted with aggressiveness. They had imposed on him qualities he never wanted anything to do with. Why!? The furious notes flew through his fingers. Breathing ragged. John almost fell on the keys in exhaustion. He couldn’t bear this anymore!_

_His muscle memory continued to produce the next soft notes. Suddenly, in his head even they, with their soft sadness, felt too much. He slowed down, drowned it inside. Swallowed it whole. The loss, the anguish, the pain._

_‘Let it out, Johnny… Let it out… Relax… When you relax, your body makes music too. Trust me, sweetie, let it out…’_

_Crying, screaming, panicking. John couldn’t breathe. Every breath was a stab of pain. He was losing it. His fingers were trembling. Let it out… There were images in his mind. Too much. Too many. A boy running to get away. His sister crying with a black eye. A boy locked in the closet, trying to hide tears, to be brave, to be a soldier. His sister throwing a glass to the wall. His sister lying unresponsive in bed with a half-emptied bottle. Let it out… Be a soldier. Isn’t that what he was now? A soldier going to war? Yes. Let it out…_

_John breathed. He blinked. His fingers moved. Muscle memory. Feelings. Music. His heart became one with it. Say your goodbye. Say it with pride. Never regret it. The black and white keys were part of his being. Music was part of his heart. The piano was an extension of his body. Say it with dignity. Never regret it. The melody became heated. Quick strokes. Strong momentary notes. Rapid movements. Fingers of a pianist reaching everywhere, up and down, deep and low, strong and loud, soft and unmoving, sudden and gone. No. He wasn’t a pianist. He was a soldier. He always has been. Suddenly hands stopping. Pressing. Once… Twice…_

_‘Goodbye…’ he whispered, barely audible._

_Thrice. Slowly, reluctantly, fingers left the keys to rest. Body straightened. His mind woke up. John blinked. There was silence around him. In the dim light, his eyes adjusted from the bright refractions of light they had received from the alabaster keys. He was still at the club. Every single person left was looking at him. What was it? Did they want more? John would have to disappoint. He had said his goodbyes after all… The world broke in a huge wave of clapping and applauding. His fists clenched on his knees. Eyes locked on the keys in front of him to avoid looking anywhere else and his heart shuddered. No. He had to leave. Why was he still here in the first place? He got up straight. And left the stage. Ignored the people trying to approach him. Shoved Mike away with a vague goodnight. He left._

_Tonight, he would be just a lonely figure walking the streets of London. He would be no one. Tomorrow, he would be a soldier. Nothing else. There was nothing else. Never again._

* * *

The moment the Scotland Yard arrived, Sherlock had shoved them all off with a ‘Ah! Finally!’ of exasperation. Lestrade had eyed John furiously, when Sherlock just took one of the blue lights from the crew team without consent.

‘You know how he is, Lestrade.’ John shrugged. The police officer didn’t answer, instead kept eyeing at him wordlessly. ‘What?’ John frowned. ‘It’s not like _I_ could do something about it!’

Lestrade’s hand shot up, a finger pointed at John, he was ready to explode and John bewildered took a step back. There was a half mouthed ‘You!’ on his lips but then he suddenly just exhaled, lips tightly shut, eyes supervising the rest of the team trying to block the light from the crystal-clear windows all over the place. John Watson sighed in relief, but taking another good look at Lestrade he could see the purple circles around his eyes, his slouched posture and curt nods to the team, without even a smile or any of his usual characteristics. They had some time now to go out for a drink but he could guess his family situation was becoming worse along with huge amounts of paperwork and new cases at the office. On top of all that, Sherlock wasn’t very accommodating with simpler cases lately, John guessed it had brought a riot in the detective inspector’s office.

‘Oh, come on, quickly!’ there was Sherlock’s voice from a few metres away. John’s eyes shot up at Anderson’s team doing as quickly as possible. Donovan was apparently downstairs catching up with Anderson. He rolled his eyes but then noticed how tense the DI had become suddenly. Maybe he could do something after all. Maybe what was happening to him the last few weeks had led him to let Sherlock roam wild… well, wilder than usual. He frowned and walked to his idiot of a genius friend, placing a steady hand on his shoulder and leaning close, apparently to look at what he was trying to discover with the blue light in his hand.

‘Easy, Sherlock. We have time.’ He whispered while thinking of what else to say that would catch Sherlock’s attention. ‘Want to tell me what you hope to find?’ John noticed how his voice was a bit softer than usual but it was too late to take it back, he shoved the thought away.

The consulting detective snapped to attention at John’s tone, escaping John’s grip on his shoulder. There was something of a curious trembling aura in his eyes, John squinted trying to recognise but he was fairly sure, he hadn’t seen it before. They broke eye contact almost immediately afterwards and Sherlock held the blue light as a pointer, ready to go on about what he had deduced. Lestrade neared too and John caught a momentary grateful glance shooting his way.

‘Here’s where the painting was positioned.’ Sherlock tried to speak slowly and be patient, indicating to them where to look with the blue light at hand. ‘The man belonging to the personnel of the building was found dead approximately four blocks from here. He disappeared while on shift. Now, I bet if we ask for the hours of this shift from the owner, they will match with the estimation of when the painting was taken.’

‘You mean stolen?’ Lestrade cut him off. ‘You mean the man we found dead had stolen the painting from his boss and run into the night, got himself killed?’ John frowned looking at his flatmate. No, this wasn’t so simple, he would have told him already.

‘No, George, I said we’re looking for a murderer. Do keep up.’ Sherlock grimaced. ‘I am saying, our man was killed right here. In front of the painting. And let me guess, he had deadly wounds that probably killed him in seconds, wounds that would also happen to bleed a lot, right?’

Lestrade stayed still for a moment, then nodded, obviously too tired to argue about his name.

‘Knife to the side of the neck.’ The inspector took his phone out and showed them some pictures.

Sherlock smirked triumphantly.

‘That’s what we’re looking for. Blood. Probable footprints. Everything.’

John smiled proudly. Everything was starting to get clearer. The murderer had a personal feud with the man working here obviously. He came to kill him but he was sloppy, he hadn’t thought it through. He probably tried to clean the floorboards but wood so greatly polished always would have imprints of all that transpired on it. If they could find footprints…

‘Obviously, we can’t rely only on footprints but if I’m correct, the killer took the painting with them in a sloppy attempt to make this look like a disappearance. Of course, the painting would have stains of blood. Wounds like that would splutter blood everywhere.’ He heard Sherlock say dimly, lost in thought.

‘I’ve already put people asking around family and friends of the victim. Tomorrow we should be able to have a list of all his known contacts.’ The DI spoke thoughtfully as well.

‘He probably meant to return the painting after he had found a way to forge it. He hadn’t thought the police would find his victim’s body so quickly. Ugh, boring. He’s a real sloppy one.’ Sherlock shook his head in frustration, tufts of his hair flying all around his face; John didn’t know why he always noticed such details.

* * *

_There’s always a first time. A first time for a little boy to not be careful enough. A first time to be careless. A first time he can give in to his youth and be swept away. There’s always a first time. That was the first time, little John exhausted from the rainy day, his schoolwork, his million little thoughts running around his brain, fell on his bed promising to get up in five minutes. Just five minutes. The door gaped wide open. His little sister unaware and playful for the first time in days._

_There was thunder and shouts and a muffled cry of a child when John woke up five hours later. With eyes wide, he saw the door close in front of him, the monster he once called Father was holding the key in one hand and his sister’s hair in the other. It closed. It clicked. Only then the boy registered the pained wailing of his sister’s open mouth. He shot up, falling to the door with all his boyish strength shouting like a mere child. That’s all he was after all. A child. A flash of lighting lit the space around him. A slow drunker slur of words was all he could hear now as his sister’s crying became silent from the other side of the stubbornly closed door._

_‘Y’ur too old to pla’ with dolls, mmmy swe’t. Y’ur broth’r ain’t takin’ ca’e of you anym’re. I’m respo’sibl’, I’m to show ye the way, gir’.’_

_The boy stood, frozen, unable to move away from the door. He couldn’t tear his ears off the noises. He must hear. Think. Think. You’re not a child. Think._

_‘Take care of her, Johnny boy… Always take care of her…’_

_Think! The was a clash of glass. Splinters falling all over the place. Think! A muffled pleading cry of a terrified girl trying to keep quiet and submissive._

_‘Think, Johnny. What do we do? Think. First lock. Then hide. Then run. Think, Johnny. What if you can’t? What if you can’t? Call. Johnny, call!’_

_Mother’s voice was digging in his ears. The boy pushed his body up from the door. He made it to the cupboards panting. Another shuttered glass. No, that was a bottle. The boy threw the drawers out of their places. A trembling hand reached the back of the empty closet now. Caught something slim and smooth. Got it out. Pressed the buttons frettingly. Dialled._

_‘Police Department of South……… what is your emergency?’ the boy didn’t hear anything just barked their address with strength he didn’t know he had. A scream from the other side of the door._

_‘Help us!’ the childish voice returned. The boy hated it. He fell to the floor curling up. Even if he went out the window to the front door or the neighbours there was nothing else he could do. He hated it._


	5. case file - evidence and stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _What good would it do to show all this pain?_  
> ...  
>  _Even if it seemed like someone had attempted to bring together two broken ends of one chord. It was better. Out of tune. But made better._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> phew there we are c: thank you all for the longish wait, next chapter is in the works. At some point I thought I had lost the vibe for the story that's why I stopped writing it but then it came back stronger than ever so I'm back on track, will try not to have such long waiting between chapters again ;)
> 
> I'm updating on tumblr as well so come say hi: [angel-loving-star](https://angel-loving-star.tumblr.com/)

The famous detective was pacing up and down the small living room of 221B Baker Street unfazed of the furniture or obstacles in his way. His long legs ever climbing wherever he need to, his armchair or a table, or even stacks of fallen books. John was sitting in his own armchair, cheek resting at his palm, one finger shooting up to his temple, steadying his face as his eyes followed the detective’s frantic movements.

‘Oh, come on, Sherlock, what do you hope to gain from this?’ the doctor suddenly cried out in frustration with a gesture of exasperation.

The consulting detective didn’t pay him any mind. John huffed and puffed increasingly annoyed. It had been almost a week since they scanned that crime scene with blue light, obtaining strong evidence that what Sherlock had hypothesised was true to an extent. They found a footprint, Sherlock got the measurements he needed and there were also splashes of blood around the floor.

John suspected the victim hadn’t yield easily at his last moments of consciousness. The splashes of blood had been smudged by frantic feet and that was John’s evidence of a struggle. Sherlock on the other hand had scoffed declaring that there wasn’t really much of a fight, the murder was just sloppy in his panic of spluttering blood to the painting, so he spread blood over the whole floor before cleaning it.

However, what had gotten the detective riled up and bored out of his mind was this whole week, which remained irrevocably empty. They had some half-footprints, some brand of shoes, the shoe-size, but nothing else. No camera footage catching anything or anyone, no car leaving the premises after the time of the crime. Nothing to go on.

John winced startled as Sherlock decided to climb on the arms of his armchair, almost climbing over John himself. He was about to scold him for his childish behaviour when Sherlock tripped at his robe while getting down, close to the fireplace. The world moved in slow motion. John heard the surprised yelp Sherlock made while reaching his hands forward to protect his face. The army doctor didn’t wait, nor did he realise, what he was doing. Sherlock felt two strong arms around his waist, gripping at his robe with sudden force. His body changed direction and instead of falling on his face, started falling backwards.

* * *

_'How did my only daughter marry such a man… tsk tsk…’ was all Grandma said when she came to take them from the police station._

_Harriet wasn’t talking and she would take a lot of time to do so. They had gathered up all kinds of ‘doctors’ and people around her, speaking rapidly, trying to make her come with them and talk. Her brother hated it. He could see her, with her wide-eyed look. Empty. He could see how they looked at her. Crazy. They thought she was beyond crazy. No matter. He wouldn’t let them take her away. Not ever._

_Father was given a warning period. Grandma was asked to take them with her for that period. Then they’d go back. As if everything would ever be alright again. As if the monster Father had become would be set aside for him to be their real Father again. The boy didn’t believe them one bit. It would be a short break in their struggling. A short breathing space for them to recover. It wasn’t as if Grandma wanted them with her. They were a burden._

_‘This is all she left me with… pathetic.’ He heard her whisper sometimes. In the car, in the hospital, in the police department, at her house, at school. Everywhere. ‘Pathetic.’_

_She pretended to care. Only as far as her obligations with the police went. Otherwise they were on their own; cramped in a small room she used for storing old furniture. Not allowed to go anywhere else in her big mansion._

_‘You’ll ruin the tapestries.’_

_‘Don’t touch anything.’_

_‘Bagger off, I just cleaned this room.’_

_‘Get away!’_

_Enough. He wouldn’t take it. Not from the woman that was supposed to take care of Mother but never cared enough to come see her while she was sick. How he longed to express this tightness around his heart, the constant childish frown over his eyes, the anger and guilt. How he longed to let it play all out but couldn’t. He wasn’t even allowed to leave the room, let alone touch the soft and elegant white and black claviers on the intricately wooden carved piano in the spacious living room; more like a ball room one would say._

_Little sister was crying every night. Nightmares. Her brother could tell. He had them too. It was a pain to be able and control one’s self while asleep. To struggle not to shout when waking up in sweat and tears. She wouldn’t shout because she wasn’t even speaking anymore anyway. But he could feel himself sometimes, startled waking up, with his mouth open, ready to scream. What good would it do to show all this pain? Get them in more trouble. That’s all. So, he pressed himself to stay quiet. Every single time._

* * *

The first thing John felt was the impact of Sherlock’s skinny hips over his lower abdomen making him grunt in pain as the pelvis bone pushed in over his bellybutton and the other side dug deep on his thigh. The second was his arm snaking instinctively around Sherlock’s back, up to his neck and hair, not letting the fall jolt his friend’s spine. On the other end of the armchair, Sherlock’s legs were hanging numb and helpless from the sudden change in direction, not finding anywhere to steady themselves onto. A moment of silence passed. Another one. John finally focused on the detective’s face, eyes tightly closed as if afraid of the fall, lips parted in a silent gasp of surprise. It all happened so quickly but now John Watson had ended up with a pretty shocked detective in his lap. Jesus. He could feel the soft curls against his fingers and the tight muscles of the body he was holding, as they remained silent and in shock but he didn’t dare move. This wasn’t supposed to happen. His limbs started feeling numb, ready to start trembling as he gritted his teeth to maintain some dignity and self-control.

He was staring. Sherlock Holmes had his eyes closed and John Watson was staring at him openly. The curve of his brows slowly knitting together, in confusion as they remained uncomfortably in that position. The elegant line of his nose. The parted lips with the pinkish Cupid’s bow. The tensed neck ending up on a shirt collar, two buttons opened to reveal pale skin. There was an almost imperceptible shiver running up John’s spine and if he didn’t know better he would say Sherlock Holmes shivered with him too. But as it was, Doctor Watson did know better and he needed to stop this. End this. Get himself out of this situation. Sod this, he had worked so hard to not let himself be humiliated again like that first time at Angelo’s.

The detective’s legs shifted slightly. His eyes still closed. John saw his chance and instinctively let his body shake and move as if surprised and in a knee-jerk reaction of pain. As if Sherlock has just fallen on him and not a single second had passed. His arms pushed and he sat up abruptly. Sherlock Holmes rolling off him and right into the carpet between their armchairs, knees and palms hitting instinctively the floor as well as a loud hiss of pain and shock.

‘Christ, Sherlock! How many times should something like this happen to stop you from flouncing around the furniture?’ John’s tone was harsh.

He regretted it almost immediately. His breathing was uneven. His friend wide eyed, on his knees and hands, trying to catch up with his own as well. When John finally made a small movement to reach for his friend’s shoulder, he was confronted with a sharp fiery gaze. He stopped his hand mid-air. Sherlock’s curls were falling over his eyes, his teeth almost bared in a snarl.

‘Are you alright?’ John managed in a softer voice. His fingers making their way to Sherlock’s shoulder hesitantly, thinking the expression might be one of pain.

But the consulting detective was on his feet and two full paces away before John could touch him. Hands balled into fists, eyes scrutinising his flatmate with clearly what now could be identified as rage before biting back a monosyllable ‘Yes.’ And running to his room. Face red. Robe flailing behind him. Door shutting loudly, making John flinch.

‘What the bloody hell was that?’ John mumbled aloud to the empty room before letting himself fall back on his armchair and bring a hand to pinch the upper part of his nose in annoyance and confusion.

* * *

_One thing Grandma let them do. Or rather forced them to… Was going to school. She kept on and on every day, while taking them there with her brand-new car, about how the teachers and other parents would start sniffing information and gossip all around if they stopped going and how they needed it to survive on their own after a while and how she couldn’t afford to support their lazy arses forever._

_John didn’t object. School. He was good at it. Besides, without something to work on, his life would be irrevocably empty. He could just stare at the wall, he supposed. Or sneak downstairs and look at the piano, his whole life revolving around its magnificence. But since school was allowed -more like obligatory- he couldn’t say no._

_Until their small reprieves in Grandma’s dreadful place became regular. Their lives continued on for a couple of years exactly like this. Father gets another warning or three, seven, one, ten weeks in (John didn’t exactly know where that ‘in’ was, only that Father wasn’t allowed to return to the house). Spend some months in their breathing space that didn’t seem like it at all. Go back to the hellhole. Live fending off the streets. Another warning. Another Grandma call. Another hell. Back again. All stitched together in a heap of painful childhood memories._

_School. The only constant. The same school. Fortunately. Misery, bullying, beating up some boys from Harriet’s class, getting high marks but called to the Dean’s office anyway. His sister continued to not speak so he was called in her stead as well. Grandma said they only kept her because of the charities she had helped them with. No matter. He would never let any harm come to his little sister. Ever._

_The boy grew sick of the indignation in their voices, of the forced childish appeal as if he didn’t get it. As if he was ‘little’. Most of all, it was the preaching about God. God this, God that, God said turn the other cheek, God said respect and love your enemies, God said, God said, God said…_

_Only Mother knew how to speak to them about God properly. He knew that. His sister knew it. There was no changing it. Father never really cared and Grandma was much the same as the religious school only practiced, forced, prepared. She didn’t really care, just had heard the whole thing so many times that it was easier to repeat for her supposed ‘duty’ to them. But Mother… Mother just made it wonderful… not a lie, not false, not a fantasy… But Mother was gone. And so was god for little John._

_There was nothing that would ever manage to stitch up this lot of holes in the young teen. Only work. School and study was the only thing keeping him together. Stitching his life in a continuum. Even if it seemed like someone had attempted to bring together two broken ends of one chord. It was better. Out of tune. But made better._

* * *

Sherlock pushed his back against the door of the room until it hurt. His breathing was ragged, his throat flaring. He needed water but there was no way in any hell, he was going to get out of this very room anytime soon. After some time, when it became obvious nobody was running to follow him, the Detective let his body slide down to the floor. Lifeless and numb. He was mildly disappointed really. It wasn’t that he expected a knock to check everything’s alright or even his flatmate to insist to see him and clear this out in the here and now. No. That wasn’t what he should hope for at all. John wasn’t known for his straightforwardness in such matters. Well… neither was he, right?

Grumbling annoyingly to himself, he found that he was running his fingers through his hair compulsively. Sherlock huffed a breath and tugged at the hair down at his neck, where John had- where he had-… Calm down. You’re alone. Calm down. Calm down. Shut if off! Pity. He should be the first to know there was no such thing as shutting off his brain. Not with something like this nagging at the corners, ready to burst. What in the world had just happened?

_Tell you what, you big git, you just almost got yourself killed, falling like that right into the fireplace!_

Shut it. Shut it. Shut uuuup! Up, he goes to his heels again, fidgety, pacing and grunting with the images and sensations his mind can’t put aside. The warm fingers up his neck, into his hair. The sturdy body underneath him. The tight, almost protective hold. The torso leaning over him. And then-… Sherlock Holmes throws his hands in the air with exasperation before finally falling face first onto his bed, crumbling the sheets under tightly gripping fingers -so tight in fact, that the knuckles turn white- and teeth biting into a pillow to stifle the frustrated mumbles -half cries- that struggle to be freed from his previously pursed lips.


	6. maybe; maybe when he was older

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _A note. Evolving to a tune. Sounds echoing and disappearing into the wooden surfaces around him. Stark and strong. Firm and purposeful. Then drawled, slow, tender, sliding the time further away from them as they continued. Then frantic, quick, staccatos of pings and cheerful. Back to the deep, strict ones at one hand, soft replies of drawn out ones from the other at the higher notes. It was a conversation. Magical and constructed to perfectly manifest the feeling of two different opinions, arguing and presenting themselves against each other, then slowly falling in love and melting into one._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There. That didn't take too long, did it? Next chapter in the works once again (because when I start writing one somehow I always end up with half of another c:)
> 
> come say hi on tumblr: [angel-loving-star](https://angel-loving-star.tumblr.com/)

_It was winter. The first time he saw her. He had grown. Teachers praised him for being ‘the mature one’ in his classes now. He liked to think of himself as almost a man. A lie. It wouldn’t make any difference. He was no better, he missed it. Everything. His sister was not better, she just pretended to be. He could not be responsible for her anymore. Yet, he still should._

_It was winter. The air was crisp and chilly in the great hall of the school’s chapel. For his eyes, it seemed almost gigantic, even if he was twelve now. He walked in out of curiosity. They weren’t allowed in here except for special occasions. There was a grand old piano in here. He knew. He always knew such things. Noticed them. In the back of his childish mind but still there._

_It was winter… Mistletoes hang around the walls, ribbons above every stained glass with their colourful fairy-tale patterns. It wasn’t exactly a traditional chapel. For the students, it was more of a gathering hall for celebrations. Such as Christmas. Not for all of them though. Every class below John’s age celebrated in another hall, at the far side of the school. This year though… This year, the boy would finally get to see it. The piano. The grand piano._

_He walked carefully through the wooden, padded rows of seats. She was sitting there. In front of the graceful instrument. The boy would give all his small savings to bet that the sound of it would be glorious when a piece was executed on it correctly. Well. Maybe not ‘correctly’. Playing it was art, everyone did it differently, made their choices accordingly, studied the composers’ style and writing before they actually played their partitures. Appropriately. Yes, that was the word. Appropriately._

_The sound though. It was about the sound. He still remembered his Mother’s old wooden one, where he first learned to play. It was as if the notes were coming from a faraway past, long gone but never forgotten, always embedded in the metallic strings, touched by the moving wooden pads elegantly whenever a key was pressed. Transfixed, John -it was strictly forbidden for anyone to call him ‘Johnny’ anymore- walked on, hoping to test his theory._

_But she was sitting there. The teen ducked behind the first two rows when her head turned. A teacher? He hadn’t seen her before. Utterly still, heart thundering in his little chest, he waited. No one came to find him. Instead, he could hear the flourish of papers fluttering, pages turning, the soft bump of the cover opening and resting at the wooden face behind it, the imperceptible crack of the piano bench being adjusted and sat upon. He held his breath even more now that he realised he was in fact holding it._

_A note. Evolving to a tune. Sounds echoing and disappearing into the wooden surfaces around him. Stark and strong. Firm and purposeful. Then drawled, slow, tender, sliding the time further away from them as they continued. Then frantic, quick, staccatos of pings and cheerful. Back to the deep, strict ones at one hand, soft replies of drawn out ones from the other at the higher notes. It was a conversation. Magical and constructed to perfectly manifest the feeling of two different opinions, arguing and presenting themselves against each other, then slowly falling in love and melting into one._

* * *

‘The list.’ murmured the detective inspector offering up a yellow folder.

‘What list?’ the stare he received from the doctor was curious.

‘That he asked for.’ the DI seemed cross.

John eyed him more tersely. If he didn’t know better he’d say Sherlock specifically asked Greg not to reveal any information to him. But as it was, John did know better. Sherlock had probably been in a foul mood and bullied him for that list with series of unstoppable text messages. The doctor almost ripped the folder when extracting it from the DI’s fingers with a snap. He picked through the pages. Greg frowned.

‘The next auction?’ Oh. Sherlock hadn’t told him about that. He had been avoiding him quite actively since that incident two days ago.

‘Yes, and the guests for the celebratory dinner afterwards.’ the DI shifted from one leg to the other.

‘I reckon that would be of use.’ John nodded. ‘Shall we?’ he motioned to the door. He was acting up. Like a child. Like Sherlock. Being distant to Greg wouldn’t really help. But John couldn’t help it, not after suspecting there was something odd about the DI’s demeanour.

‘Yes, alright.’ Lestrade followed him to the door and frowned again. ‘Where is he, anyway?’

‘Mm?’ John raised an eyebrow incredulous. ‘Oh! Oh… His room.’ He nodded with confidence and at the look he received, amended, ‘Or snuck outside the window. Most probably.’

The DI nodded and shook his head with noted exasperation opening the door himself and waving with a mouthed ‘Take care.’ Before, John could even realise what he had said. The wooden door closed behind the policeman and John Watson exhaled the tension oozing in him with a palm pressed on it, a little above his head as he leaned on one leg, shoulder’s sagging. What was wrong with him?

* * *

_It was only after the holidays, John was able to return to the chapel -slash- gathering hall. The janitor had found him that day before Christmas, crouched down between the benches, not having realised the music had stopped long ago. His mind had continued playing melodies until it got dark and he was cold but it didn’t matter. He didn’t notice, lost as he was in good-old-fashioned memories._

_Grandma had been out of her mind with worry, they told him. The chapel wasn’t supposed to be visited by the students without supervision. He knew. He apologised. He explained. Even the janitor had believed him in the end, remembering his faraway look when the flashlight had shown on the youngster’s face, how much shaking of the shoulders it took to bring him to the here and now. Then he also said it might have been the cold._

_So, John was banned from the Christmas celebrations anyway. Harriet hated him for it again. She wouldn’t be allowed to attend the smaller classes celebrations either. Grandma thought she didn’t worth the trip to and from without her brother. The trip. To school. If he was older, John would certainly say something against this. But he wasn’t. He wasn’t all mature and grown up. He was still that little boy by his Mother’s bedside… The one that someone, once upon a time, had called ‘Johnny’…_

_All he could do was watch his sister brood and sulk in a corner at their small attic of a home -almost permanent now. Funny thing was, she never actually shouted at him, or confronted him. She just sat there and waited for him to feel her hatred. He didn’t know why she would hate him for not attended school anyway. It wasn’t that she had any friends to miss. It didn’t matter. None of this mattered. At least, he had heard the sound of the grand old piano once…_

_Now he was more daring. The huge space around him, dedicated to God supposedly, but more often used for boring announcements and seasonal celebrations that had mostly nothing to do with the Church of England, was empty in its entirety. Quiet. Void. The kind that, if you dropped a pin straight down with the tip, you would hear it touch the floor; the characteristic ‘ting’ even burning echoes to the walls and colourful windows._

_The teen walked over to the small empty round space -which couldn’t be called stage- as if running towards a long-lost lover or more accurately, -for his age, he would probably call it- finding a toy which he thought lost for years, at a completely obvious spot that he should’ve checked before. There was a breath, almost a gasp; more of awe and wonder than anything else. Then, he let his small fingers touch the weathered wood._

_With eyes widened, the boy took it all in, careful and slow. It was glistening. Like a wooden mirror. Polished. That was the word. Polished to perfection. His nose crinkled with slight rebuke. He shouldn’t have forgotten that. Polishing was the reason he ever had a chance of being taught to play by his Mother._

_Grandpa. Polishing and wood, carving and mechanical clocks or anything he could get his hands on. That was his profession, wasn’t it? So long ago. He hadn’t even met him. But the stories… oh, the stories… How the small, crooked piano ended up on his Mother’s possessions was one of them. The client that had gone off to the war without ever coming back for it or leaving it to someone. He had no family, no ties, just a military record and a tour to Vietnam, then rushed into the Falklands._

_Nowadays, it was difficult for him to recall those stories at all. He had buried them, mostly because he couldn’t believe life to be so rosy and wonderful as his Mother always suggested. He couldn’t believe how Grandma could ever have been in love. The possibility of the object of her affections to be a lovely carpenter -slash- mechanic -slash- toymaker; like Grandpa was always shown in Mother’s stories, was even more farfetched. Later in his life, he might understand that maybe his death was what made Grandma the way she is in the first place._

_Maybe, he would also understand how foolish he was for ever believing those cosy stories in the first place, while he knew Grandpa was years gone and Grandma had disgraced her daughter for doing the same mistakes. Marrying a common man. Not that there was anything traditional or noble about Grandma’s family tree, except money and a huge manor and a couple of cottages that she never provided to their family; not even now that her grandchildren were struggling to live with her._

_If he looked deeply enough, the little helpless boy he felt he was, he might even justify her actions. He might even not blame her anymore. After all, she was right. Marrying his father was probably the biggest mistake his Mother had ever made. But no, even so, he couldn’t quench the rage and blame he held for her not even remotely trying to save her own daughter from a terrible illness. He might be only a boy but he understood that much and there was no excuse for it._

* * *

Sherlock had heard the Detective Inspector being ushered in by a fidgety army doctor and satisfied leaped out the fire escape with a thin tin box burdening his coat pocket. He had snuck out during the night, passing by a snoring John on the sofa, to retrieve said coat; his scarf also tucked in a pocket safely. Said excursion took more than ten minutes because John Watson was just that kind of fascinating to watch when asleep.

The detective shook his head. He needed to focus. Not John. Focus. He needed to think. Think about the case, about anything really that wouldn’t require thinking about an army doctor holding him on his lap for almost a whole minute without realising it. Brushing his fingers over- No! His mind came to a screeching halt as he jumped and rolled down the back alley behind 221 Baker Street. Focus.

Mrs Hudson’s bin were intact, some of the rubbish backs sprawled over by cats. The alley was quiet and small, as usual dark even in the early morning. He relished the cold air hitting his exposed neck as the wind bristled its way from the small opening somewhere nearby from the busy street, sneaking between the crouched together London buildings like a secret messenger; in this case alerting of the coming storm.

Concentrate. That’s it. Sherlock rushed to the nearest building on the other side and started climbing the rusty fire escape to the roof. He needed to think. The brand of shoes was particularly rare and expensive, drawing to the conclusion the killer had actually been either a member or a visitor of the auctions house. Probably a recent one, more probably a regular one. Regular enough to know members of the staff personally and develop friendships or hatred based on particular backstabbing situations; quite literal in their case.

Reaching the roof, the detective didn’t wait a moment longer, he started running and leaped to the next roof towards the general direction of Soho. The footprints indicated shoe size and decay clearly enough but that didn’t matter. Lestrade had already brought him a list of all purchases of that particular model, from all shops in the country, but that had been a waist of time. The pattern decay of the soles showed that they had been used for about three to four weeks, but seeing as that type of shoes could only be worn in certain occasions -if the man wearing them didn’t wear them daily, which could be the case as well-, and adding the fact they existed for sale for about four years, in exactly the same sole design and material, they should be looking at purchases from almost a month ago to at least two years before. Useless. It would take ages of confused phone calls to track the buyers that actually attended this particular auction house. Phone calls that would rouse suspicion, maybe even chitchat and gossip that would eventually alert the probably very well socialised into the higher circles killer. Dead end.

Up and down fire escapes and rooftops, balconies and storages he went, intent on running all the way across London if it kept his heart racing, his body pumping energy to his veins, his mind fixed on what he needed to do. Solve the case. Nothing else. He needed nothing else… It wasn’t as if anyone in the auction house would ever remember what shoes any of the quests wore regularly. Idiots. He knew John of all people would figure it out. Lestrade just handed him the list of guests anyway. He just had to go somewhere to-

Fuck. Sherlock stopped deep in a darker alley than the one behind Baker Street. This wasn’t working, was it? His damned flatmate was still going to creep into his thoughts, no matter what. He blew out a breath, watched it become soggy in the cold air. His fingers fished the metallic box out of his coat. Opened it. He wanted to wait for the good stuff but… never mind. He was a tiny bit guilty about that anyway.

_Pity, thought you were doing well._

_Get out of my head, damn it! What have I ever done to deserve this?_

The cigarette was being sucked thoroughly between his thin lips in no time.


End file.
